Jason Todd

Disgusting. This whole thing was absolutely disgusting, vile, and above all, irritating.

Bruce Wayne, the ever-beloved King of the High Fae, had finally found his wayward second son a spouse. They found a beautiful, perfect, wonderful, powerful spouse to marry him to, and all of those lovely adjectives didn't mean shit to Jason. They would probably be marrying him off to some waifish little pixie, a fragile, capricious, whiny thing that he would have to deal with for the next several hundred centuries. "Fated mate" or whatever the hell those old bullshit superstitions were didn't mean a thing to him, and he did not want to be married off.

And oh, he'd heard the stories. He knew what the other fae talked about behind his back; the Unseelie adopted son, the bloodthirsty redcap who dipped that distinctive Red Hood of his in the blood of his victims, the bastard son, the man-eating beast, whatever. The fae, for all their faults, were masterful in the unsavory art of weaving gossip, and they did so with a vengeance. Beautiful, statuesque elves and nymphs and pixies with their brainwashed human slaves or cowering brownie servants fawning over them would then fawn over Bruce and Dick only to immediately turn around and snicker about that horrible second son once the ass-kissing was over.

Bootlickers, all of them, and Jason was sure this new spouse would be no different. Something pretty, perhaps with a long tail or antlers, clad in mountains of the finest silks and velvets, with servants and slaves scurrying around them like planets orbiting a beautiful neutron star.

The pixie servants chattered aimlessly as they prepped Jason for his wedding, which was in only an hour. They were still trying to convince him to let them polish his fangs, which he, naturally, rejected. "If you touch my fangs," He growled, baring the monstrous incisors in question. "I will bite you in half before you can touch them." The pixie went two shades too pale and immediately backed away, nodding its head and babbling out meaningless little assurances. "Yes, yes, of course, Master, of course. W-w-we never meant any disrespect to you, your Princeliness, your grandness." It flittered off and went back to his duties, and he is tired of the constant fiddling.

The fiddling did not stop.

If anything, it multiplied.

Silks slid over his shoulders like living things, cool and whispering, tugged into place by half a dozen careful hands that treated him like a live bomb—one wrong movement and he would go off. A brownie knelt to fasten the clasps at his boots, fingers shaking so badly Jason could feel it through the leather. Another pixie hovered at his left, holding a sash woven of moonthread and thorn-silk, its wings buzzing nervously as it waited for permission that would never come.

“Just—get on with it,” Jason snapped, jerking his arm when someone lingered too long at his wrist.

They flinched as one.

The garment itself was… offensive. Objectively beautiful, of course—High Fae ceremonial wear always was. Deep forest green shot through with veins of black and old gold, the fabric embroidered with warding runes so fine they looked like natural patterning rather than spells. The coat was cut to accommodate his shoulders and his horns, the collar split and reinforced where they curved back from his temples. Someone had planned for him. That realization sat poorly in his gut.

A nymph approached with a circlet.

Jason’s lip curled.

“No.”

“It is not a crown, your Highness,” she said quickly, voice smooth but brittle. “Merely a binding band. Symbolic. For the vows.”

“Put it on the table,” he growled. “I’ll wear it when I’m dead.”

The nymph swallowed, nodded, and obeyed.

They laced his coat closed next, pulling the front together over his chest, silver clasps clicking into place one by one. Each carried a blessing—fidelity, protection, prosperity, unity—stacked on him like chains. He could feel them hum faintly against his skin, magic brushing up against the redcap curse in his blood and recoiling like it didn’t know what to do with him.

Good.

Let it be uncomfortable.

A sprite with ink-stained fingers stepped forward holding a thin brush dipped in something dark and metallic. “The sigils, my lord—”

Jason leaned down until his shadow swallowed the thing whole. “Touch me with that,” he said quietly, “and I’ll redecorate this room with your wings.”

The brush clattered to the floor.

“Skip the fucking blessings,” he added. “If the marriage needs spells to survive, it’s already dead.”

No one argued.

They dressed him anyway—adjusting, smoothing, tightening—until there was no more excuse to touch him. The final indignity came in the form of a sash crossed diagonally over his torso, the knot resting just beneath his ribs. The color was wrong. Not High Fae gold, not courtly white—but a deep, dark red that drank the light instead of reflecting it.

Jason stilled.

“…What’s that?” he demanded.

The pixie holding the end of it hesitated, then squeaked, “It—it signifies union between courts. Your bloodline and—”

He laughed. A sharp, humorless bark that made the windows tremble.

“Of course it does,” he said. “Couldn’t let the monster forget what he is, right?”

No one met his eyes.

When they were finished, they stepped back in a loose semicircle, heads bowed, wings folded tight. Jason stood alone in the center of the chamber, dressed like a prince, bound like an offering. He caught sight of himself in the mirror—red eyes burning out of a face carved sharp by anger and old violence, horns polished despite his protests, his infamous hood folded neatly at the foot of the bed like a caged thing.

He looked… regal.

He hated it.

“Get out,” he said.

They fled.

Silence settled in their wake, heavy and expectant. Somewhere beyond the walls, bells began to toll—soft, chiming notes that signaled the final hour before vows.

Jason rolled his shoulders, feeling the magic settle, feeling the weight of it all press down on him.

Pixie, he thought bitterly. Waif. Ornament.

Whoever this spouse was, they’d better be exactly what the court expected.

Because if they weren’t—if this whole farce was another joke at his expense—

Well.

Red would look very good on those silks.